just keep following the heartlines in your hand
by strangervision
Summary: My fluffy, a little feely, and a whole lot whimsical take, on why Natasha cut her hair.


Title from Florence and The Machine's "Heartlines". My fluffy and a little feely take on why Natasha cut her hair. You get post spam because all these were on tumblr, I was just lazy and didn't post them here till now. Oops.

* * *

Sometimes they fall asleep in the oddest of positions. Tonight, he's on his front beside her, his strong chest pinning her right arm under it, her fingers curling into the hair at the nape of his neck. His own arm is draped across her waist so that she's pressed tightly against his side, his forearm reaching up under her and tangling in her red locks. In the haze of sleepiness that follows, she thinks that maybe he's holding her with a trace of possessiveness, as if he'd like to call her his. She falls asleep thinking of how screwed she is because she likes that idea.

This is when she realises (too late) that it has already started. He leaves before she wakes, and when she blinks her eyes open, it's time to get breakfast for one.

Natasha Romanoff has always been independent and strong; she has never loved anyone because love is weakness, is for children, is a chink in the armour. Given this, it's easy to see how she panics at the first sign of affection for someone else (the first sign she might be losing herself). Once, on a solo mission for SHIELD – one of the very first ones she had been assigned – she picked up a magazine with an article exploring why women chose to cut their hair to get men out of their system.

Blessed (or, in this case, cursed) with the most sharp of memories, Natasha never got the notion of something so silly out of her head. Since then, she's grown more and more aware, on every team mission, of how Clint loves tangling his fingers in her hair. Given the chance, he doesn't hesitate to slip his hand into her locks and just hold her. The very first time it happened, Natasha recalls, they were posing as lovers, and while holding her close he folded an arm easily around the small of her back and threaded the other into her hair. She also remembers the few times they kissed on missions, his fingers spearing into her locks, his mouth hot and gentle on hers. There's a vague memory of when she was blonde, and she remembers with a great deal of amusement how he insisted on braiding the pale strands of hair and twisting them between his fingers.

Natasha is lost in her memories by the time she finishes breakfast, sinking into the sofa in a big sweater. There was that time at Stark Industries, when her hair was closer to brunette than red, and the day before she left he told her he liked its original colour. She had allowed the corner of her lips to quirk slightly, not betraying the flutter that went through her. They hadn't been a _thing_ then, and she hasn't ever been sure of where they stand, even now. She only knows that whatever it is that came to life inside her when he saved her life has only grown into an attraction too strong to deny, and that there is a soft ache in her chest when she thinks of him. Mostly, she tries to deny this. Still, it's as bright as a flower, blooming in her heart and forcing blood into her veins, and even if red has always been the colour of guilt, it may also be the colour of life.

* * *

Before he left for New Mexico on a mission, he came to see her, barring all risks, and back then he had said he missed her, because they hadn't gone on a team mission in so long. She only agreed because it was true, she tells herself. He didn't – still doesn't – talk about feelings of any kind, so she has been and will keep hers to herself. They had sex then, because they wanted to, and neither of them really admitted why. After that, while she was in the shower, he came in and washed her hair, dragging his fingers through her curls thoroughly and rubbing at her scalp until he very nearly drew a moan from her. She kept her lips pressed tightly together, trying desperately to stop her limbs from trembling.

It is by far the most illogical and irrational Natasha Romanoff lets herself do, when, after the memories run their course, she takes a pair of scissors and retreats to the bathroom. There, with an insistent ache in her lower tummy and the recollection of his touch and a churning in her stomach, she cuts off her hair, and doesn't stop until it's level, abruptly stopping mid-collar. She silently thanks God for the undercover mission she went on as a hairdresser.

Relieved that it's all gone now, Natasha breathes easier, half-heartedly convincing herself that now there is nothing unnecessary left that ties him to her.

She flies off to Russia soon after on a solo-op while Barton is still in New Mexico. When she gets the call from Coulson in the middle of her interrogation, the back of her neck prickles as though to remind her of the calloused fingertips that brushed their brand there once, long ago. Everything inside her stiffens, and nevermind that she doesn't want to be tethered to him – she will do everything to get him back. She tells herself it's because she owes him.

* * *

In the wake of the Chitauri tearing half of Manhattan apart, Clint observes his partner and really looks hard at her, and realizes that the jarring difference is her hair, no longer halfway down her back like it was at Stark Industries, (like the last time he held her).

After they send Loki and Thor off, they sit in the car, switching driving in between because the safe house they're heading to together is nearly a day away. When she's at the wheel, he plays his fingers at the end of the short red bob. It's a different look, and Clint can't ignore the twisting in him when he looks at her and realizes she's still beautiful. He tells her so, and she barely suppresses the full-body shudder that goes through her at this. She mutters a silent thanksgiving that she's wearing a biker jacket, so the thick collar keeps her nape from feeling the familiar touch of his fingers.

When he takes over the driving, she rests her face against the flat of the seatbelt and imagines it to be his warm hand, but the air-conditioner is blowing at her face and the fabric doesn't really do his skin justice. Still, she snuggles down and falls asleep.

When they get there, he draws her out of her seat and into his arms. They stand for a while beside the car, and Natasha wonders when such easy affection became commonplace between the two of them. Neither of them has acknowledged any feelings that might exist in this small space, but physical intimacy and trust come easy. His hand knots in her hair again, teasing at the blunt edges.

"Why'd you cut it?" he asks softly, breath warm against her ear, and she knows that she's screwed, no matter which way she deals with the feelings rising in her like a tide.

Lost in desperate, futile thoughts of how to get rid of the childish fluttering in her tummy, she doesn't notice when he pulls away to look at her, affection bright in his eyes.

"I just – it's nothing," she supplies, turning on her heel as she twists out of his arms and hefts her duffle bag into the house. Clint always holds her like he expects to have to let her pull away any time; his touch fleeting and reverent and firm all at once, and she's never thought about it but his embrace is like home. His _heart_ is like her home, sure and constant and roomy. She can go when she wants and return when she needs, and she knows somehow that he's always going to be around waiting. What startles her this time is the desire that blooms in her chest: she wants to be his home. She's not a stable person, in many senses of the word, but she wants to be what he comes back to after spiraling through the life they have chosen for themselves. She wants him to come back to her. (Who is she kidding when she tries to cut her feelings out with her hair? This hold is so much more binding than anything tangible or transient is).

She lets a small breath escape her, and chews on her lower lip, brows creasing as a stab of longing twists her insides. She shouldn't want this, and the ache funneling through her middle is only proof of how affection and yearning weakens one. _Yearning:_ she read once, _at the core of this desire is the belief that everything can be perfect_. And she doesn't want any part of yearning then because her hands are too bloody to be perfect, and her life is too messy to be perfect. She cannot be perfect; cannot have that belief, and cannot be anyone's home.

The clenching in her chest doesn't stop even as she settles down with her favourite book of poetry. Elsewhere in the house, she can hear Clint pacing, then tinkering around the kitchen, and she's grateful enough that even now he gives her the space she needs. By dinnertime, Clint has stopped his activity and the house is strangely still. This is how she knows he's gone out for a run or a walk or sorts. When he returns, he goes into the adjoining shower without greeting her, and Natasha starts to wonder if there's something wrong that she has failed to spot. He comes out, drying his hair with a towel, another wrapped low on his hips, and she's perched on the edge of the bed, watching him.

"Well damn, Romanoff, I wouldn't have pegged you for a voyeur," he said casually, but his voice is tight and his use of her last name is not lost on her.

"Clint," she says, flicking her tongue at her lower lip in a nervous tick, "Is something wrong?"

His back tenses as he remains turned away from her, and this is the first time Natasha feels lost around him. He's not behaving like the rock at sea she's used to clinging to, he's more like a buoy this time that's following the choppy waters, and she cannot quite catch the ebb and flow of this particular tide.

"Why don't you tell me?" the words are out before he can catch himself, and as Natasha feels herself tense, he utters a curse and apologises immediately, "Sorry, Nat, I just – it's really nothing, I understand if you don't want to tell me things anymore, I shouldn't – it's stupid to bother,"

What he throws her is barely a lifeline, but it's pretty much all she needs to understand the situation that has practically hailed down on them. He's misunderstood her previous reticence as guarding herself from him. It's not all inaccurate, but she's willing to hazard a guess that he has deduced for himself reasons that aren't even close to the ones she has. He probably thinks of himself as no longer good enough – her theory is confirmed when he mutters, more to himself than to her, "I should've been stronger, anyway, telling him all that about you, I can understand why you don't want to be around me anymore – you know what, _fuck_ this, I'm just gonna – "

He turns on his heel, clothes in his hand as he makes for the door, and Natasha is on her feet in a flash, her strong, small fingers clenching around his wrist fiercely.

"Wait," she says, swallowing past her tight throat as he turns, his face away from hers, "You don't – that's not it,"

It's that that makes him turn his eyes onto her, and she shakes her head as if to clear it, "It's – Clint…I have these feelings for you," her gaze falls from his and she drops her head, her flame-red hair shadowing her face from his, "And I should've known better but I was trying to cut them off – so I just – "

He barks out a short, bitter laugh as he realizes what exactly has transpired, slipping his wrist from her slack grip.

"You tried to cut me out – _literally_? Natasha, all you had to do was tell me you didn't want anything to do with me and I would've gone as far as you wanted me to, I've always been fucked for you, I'd do anything for you," He's gesturing wildly and his eyes are bright with a sort of manic sadness, a sheen of tears just barely there, and it breaks her heart to see it. It also guts her to know that his frustration is not even borne of her resistance to her own feelings, but possibly of his own inability to somehow fix everything.

She wants to tell him to shut up, to stop talking and listen to her, but he's breathing hard now, looking everywhere but her, and she slides a strong hand behind his neck and pulls him down to her height, crushing her lips to his and settling another hand on the side of his face so he can't pull away. Once he actually starts to respond to her kiss, he finds he cannot pull away, and he wraps his arms tight around her and holds her to him as close as he can, as though he can absorb her, keep her under the seam of his skin so he can never lose her.

Even pressed against each other, the contact is not sensual. One large, warm hand smoothes over the small of her back, slipping under her shirt, and Natasha's skin prickled slightly as she presses closer, wanting to be overwhelmed by him, only him.

It's as though he can read her mind when he drops onto the bed and pulls her atop him, and she squirms, clutching at him, not stopping until his arms come back, firm around her, and she finally relaxes against his warm frame. Her lips mouth lazily at his, and it isn't long before she stops to press her forehead against his and look at him with eyes that are dark with wistfulness, the corner of her lips pulled tight with want.

He rolls so that they're resting on their sides, curled into each other like halves of a yin-yang symbol, complementary elements. When he presses his face into the soft line of her throat, he feels the vibration against his face as she says, "Your heart is the only place that I call home," His own breath catches in his lungs, then rushes out in a heady sigh as he tightens his arms, pulling her impossibly close. He knows she's quoting a song, and he sings the same line back to her in his stilted, gruff manner. The press of her against him is enough to make his heart swell with affection and tenderness, and he presses a kiss to her hair.

"I mean it, I'd do anything for you, even leave," he murmurs, and her soft, tuneless hum is how he knows that she just wants him. He reaches a hand up from its resting place on her thigh to tangle it in the short ends of her hair, tugging her close and catching her lips between his. She kisses him back, and he pulls back to tell her that she is beautiful, and that he loves her hair. He means to say, _I love you_, and he's sure she hears it because she snuggles closer, fisting a hand against his chest, over his heart, and whispers, "Love you too,"

It's not the same as the full thing; Natasha never does anything without intent, and even the absence of a single pronoun can make a world's difference in a sentence, but this is a start and Clint closes his eyes, content to have her fitted snugly into his side. She falls asleep surrounded by him, making a mental note to never believe anything a magazine says again.


End file.
